


going my way

by thetalkingcrocus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Second Person, Season/Series 03, episode fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 01:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14727309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetalkingcrocus/pseuds/thetalkingcrocus
Summary: It’s hard to ignore the whistling of the wind through the bullethole framed by bloodspray in the passenger window as you surge down more and more isolated roads.





	going my way

**Author's Note:**

> My third work for this fandom! This fic takes place during s3e13, specifically between the scene where Hannibal and Will escape and the scene where the Dragon finds them. I hope you enjoy!

It’s hard to ignore the whistling of the wind through the bullethole framed by bloodspray in the passenger window as you surge down more and more isolated roads. Despite the stream of air against your cheek you’re trying very hard not to think about the bloodstains on the seat of the police car, and the dead body that was shoved out of it unceremoniously before Hannibal leaned over, all coy smiles, to ask if you were his way.  
  
You knew at the heart-wild core of you that despite all his nonchalance here he is again, risking your rejection. The cocky smile, the easy posture of his arms: one resting on the center console, one hand on the wheel of the police car. The potential for your rejection is out there, somewhere. Still, you know he won’t have to face it in a part of you that you tried for three years not to think about, without much success. There’s something dark and gleaming in you, and it yearns for him constantly, all stray-dog whine and recognition.

 

You pull yourself into the police cruiser and sit next to Hannibal, who gave a little lip-quirking smile that you returned, raking a hand back through your hair and getting blood, just a little, in it. Seatbelts seem a little superfluous at this juncture, but you put yours on out of habit and bark out a laugh when Hannibal mirrors the gesture, the familiar click of the mechanism hammering home the reality of this bizarre situation, of the dead officers on the pavement whose car Hannibal is proposing to whisk you away in. _Is_ whisking you away in, in fact, because for all your introspection (“You worry too much, Will”) he is heading down roads you aren’t familiar with. You’re startled by how unafraid you are, all things considered. The curiosity in your chest is familiar, and you’re not sure who it belongs to (“I was curious what would happen”). You’re also not sure it matters, really, anymore.

 

“What next?” you ask, already spinning ideas in your head with an intensity it feels like Hannibal must be able to hear.

 

“I have several ideas,”  Hannibal replies, taking a turn onto a nearly deserted backroad. “They will require some… minor preparation. But some of my safeguards may still be in place, from before.”

 

Something about the word before makes your stomach flip in a not-altogether-unpleasant way. It is, above all, a way that makes you hope for an after.

 

“Safeguards for Dolarhyde?”

 

“Safeguards for after.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Hannibal does when you reach the cottage, nestled deep in the surrounding woods, leaning up against the soft rush of the ocean, is welcome you in with a flourish that doesn’t coordinate with his muted prison uniform. He leads you through the open space and out the back, speaking as you thread through this room, as you imagine his life here.

 

“I apologize for not immediately offering you refreshments,” Hannibal says, “but first I am afraid there is work to do. Our time here is limited.” It’s the kind of grandiose statement of his that makes every interaction a microcosm. “Now, Will: boat or car?”  
  
He already knows what your answer will be. Hannibal muses about the eroding of the bluff, the passage of time, fate, the lost. Then, he directs you over the bluff and to the cove below, the dark churning water, and the cave that waits there. It is beautiful, more sanctuary than hole in the rock, with the last sunlight streaming in through an arch of stone somewhere deeper and illuminating a perfectly serviceable boat. It tugs a smile out of you, and you board it to check on the supplies, neatly secreted away in waterproof tubs. You laugh out loud when you find dried rations, just at the thought of imagining Hannibal eating them. Thinking about the slight nose-wrinkle of disgust flips something warm in your stomach, and you don’t want to be far from him anymore. Supplies accounted for, you climb the slippery rough-hewn steps back to the edge and stand next to Hannibal, now dressed in a way that makes him look more like himself and spools a thread of relief radiating out of your core. You look into the dark without seeing, and think you still observe the edge of the bluff falling away.

 

As he beckons you in under the darkening sky and reappears with glasses in hand, you think about being lost to the sea.

 

All you feel is found.


End file.
